


patricide

by mickleborger



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Daddy Issues, Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickleborger/pseuds/mickleborger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garak has killed Tain a thousand times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	patricide

He does not like blood.  It's not that he does not like it because it stains; _they_ are stains he knows how to get out.  It's not that he does not like it because it is warm; he likes the warmth, and for the warmth is willing to abide the wet and the sticky and the way it gets under his nails.  It's the color that's off, with blood.  It's a red too light or too dark or perhaps not a red at all that glistens on his dagger and he looks at it, jaw clenched.  There is an upset deep in his heart and he feels like a child again and it is all he can do to keep himself from throwing the dagger across the room - blood all over the hilt, blood in-between his fingers.

He never looks at their blood.

He does not like eyes.  It's not that they're too expressive - damning him, begging him (sometimes they welcome him and that is a different nightmare entirely).  It is not because he does not like being watched, though it's true that he does not.  Sometimes there are too many eyes or too few, and sometimes there is nothing that can be called eyes, and all of these things he accepts.  Sometimes they are blue and like his, but the blue is never right: too bright, too green, too deep; and always, _always_ too warm.  It is only in the mirror that he sees the eyes he is looking for.

He never looks at their eyes.

And with every throttle he is more vicious; with every dose of poison he is more grim.  With every mysterious explosion he feels a smile tug at his mouth, and then a sudden chill.  With every dying cry comes a surge of glee and then a swift plunge back down.  He does not lift his head as he walks away for fear of seeing a mirror and in it a hardened gaze that is not his.

Sometimes he watches them grow cold until he can put his hand against their skin without it feeling like burning, until blankets can warm them no better than they can warm him.  Sometimes he hunches over them with his garrote still tight about their throats and sighs against dark hair he imagines belongs to someone else.  Sometimes he talks to them - swears at them, pleads with them.  Sometimes he only sits with them in silence.

He never looks at their faces.


End file.
